again. It's always the same. IS this what I'm meant to do? Is it even so deep? What else do I have to offer if not this. No other sights in my view seem to appease these thoughts of my inherent futility.
Just push, push, push...
That's all I see. Fractured dreams and a broken scope. No lens to clarify, straighten or demystify; just the same dull answers and a shovel for digging.
The aches on my shoulders and bags under my eyes are now nearly impossible to mask. And I can almost hear the gray hairs poking through, old age at such a young juncture. So much weighing right now that escape is neither an option nor a solution. In fact I'm obligated, my past mired with a litany of unfinished chores, hopes and dreams, abandoned with as little forethought as a crashing waves gives to wayward kelp, to persevere. I owe this to myself; I, who have reflected on these "quittings" from my past and realized that nothing can make up for them, and who have taken on the hero's helm and mantle of responsibility, of the flawed hero who's current modus opperandi serves a self-interested purpose of redemption.
And so where will it leave me if I shrug off this helm, this cape and mask? What then? What hero will I be then? To whom will I owe allegiance if I can't hold it to myself? To what depths do the borders of my country sink if my vision is mired, my stature so frail, my word so thin?
Off again into some unknown obscurity. And yet as hard as I pull on the mask, it will never come off( but that's anothertopicforanothertime).